One might mistake him for a gentleman.
One might even mistake me for a lady, the way he looks at me. Beautiful. Utterly desirable. A bane of his existence at times, and a tease at others.
“You should’ve come sooner, Gypsy.” His voice is a low purr, every word dripping with that lazy confidence he never seems to lose. “I’ve been waiting…”
He takes a step closer, his fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate. He acts like he didn’t hear me. Like we have all the time in the world. But when his shirt falls open and I see his naked, tattooed chest, I don’t seem to mind that anymore.
The brand on his chest flickers in the moonlight, a mark of the Marauders, and I lick my lips, torn between frustration and something far more dangerous.
“Let’s just say I’ve been… busy,” I reply, my voice carrying the same teasing lilt. My fingers drift to the buckles at my knees, drawing my daggers in one fluid motion. I toss them lightly into the sand, close enough to grab if I need them.
Even after all this time, I could never be totally powerless with him.
He watches me, amused, his smirk not fading for a second. “Busy enough to leave me waiting?” His tone is teasing, yet beneath it, there’s that unspoken edge, the frustration simmering just below the surface. He peels off his shirt, letting it drop to the sand. “You know I hate waiting, Gypsy.”
His words are almost a taunt, as though we haven’t done this many times before. My breath hitches, just barely, but I keep my expression neutral. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing what that does to me. Not yet.
“I thought you liked the chase,” I counter, stepping closer, my boots sinking slightly into the sand.
“Being stood up by you isn’t achase.“ His fingers hook over my waistband, and in one quick motion, he pulls me toward him, our noses almost touching. “It’s torture.”
I pause, feeling his breath against my skin, his words sinking deeper than they should.Torture. It’s a game we’ve played manytimes, but there’s something about the way he says it tonight that feels... different.
I try to shake it off—the way his voice stirs something deep inside me, making it sound like there’s more between us than just sex. He likes to speak as if we’re bound by something stronger than desire, as if I’m the one haunting his thoughts when he’s out on the waves.
But perhaps it’s only in my head. It has to be.
My heart flutters, despite myself, but I remind myself of who he is—a Marauder, a rival, and nothing more than a fleeting distraction. That’s all he can be, though sometimes… sometimes I find myself thinking of him when he’s gone.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze, forcing the tension into something I can manage—something I can control. Lust.
“I do what I want, Zayan,” I breathe. “So if it’s torture, maybe you should’ve gotten used to it by now.”
His grip tightens on my waistband, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. The heat of his body radiates against mine, and I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, in sync with my own.
“You know damn well I could never get used to you.” His voice is low, a rough whisper that sends a tingle down my spine. “No matter how many times I tell myself this is the last time.”
Electricity pulses between us—untamable currents twisting in my gut. Lightning where our bodies meet.
Still, this is purely animalistic. Nothing more.
“If you’re looking to tie someone down, head back to the inn and find a village girl for your ship. There are plenty of those.”
His eyes rake over me, but he doesn’t need to say a thing—the look on his face tells me all I need to know.
“I don’t want no village girl,” he breathes, his tattooed fingers already working at my slops. He pulls them down, the sea breezebrushing my bare skin. I step back, allowing him to undress himself as well.
I strip off my shirt as his clothes fall to his ankles, leaving nothing between us but the open night air. He stands there, naked, rough, and all too real.
There are plenty of fish in the sea, but none as fiercely wild as Zayan Cagney.
“No?” I tease, taking another step back, only for him to close the gap once more.
“No,” he echoes, his voice low, commanding. “I want you.”
And the way he says it, I know this is more than just another night for him. And maybe, just maybe, I want it to be more too. But I’ll never admit it. Not to him. Not even to myself.
“Then,” I whisper, leaning in, “fuck me—fuck me so good you’ll think about it for months. Because there might not be a next time.”
